


Crowns for Convoy

by Rubynye



Series: Works in StoatSandwich's 4F Universe (aka, the Adventures of Steve Rogers, Military Prostitute) [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Dubious Consent, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, Prostitution, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, misuse of military equipment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4600830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four thematically linked ficlets set in the 4F universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Action of the Tyger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tries to do his job.

_Thump, thump, thump_ , Steve thinks idly, timing his breaths around the thrusts inside him, as the grunting sailor pounds him against the bulkhead. Cheek and palms pressed flat to the painted metal, Steve feels the engines' steady rumble vibrate through him, background to each smacking bounce jostling up through his belly and ribs, _thump, thump, thump_.

This fellow's a generous helping, plunging heavy and hard into Steve's guts, and he could've used a little more slick for this turn, even sopping as he is after several hours on shift. Gritting his teeth behind his closed lips, Steve rides the burn and lets his mind wander, contemplating how to draw this ship from a bird's or plane's view, where it might sit in relation to the rest of the convoy, what his guys are up to over on their ship, whether Gabe's gotten to play his trumpet and how their Sarge's been sleeping --

Steve's mind flashes over, suddenly full of Barnes at midnight, heavy-lidded and smiling, hard-muscled arms draped warm around him, and his whole body jerks, suddenly pulsing around the dick pistoning inside him, up his spine and down his thighs, up his arched neck and out to the ends of his fingers and toes and dangling hair. Gasping, shuddering, Steve tries to blank his mind but that _spot_ throbs deep inside him and now each thrust prods it, sending waves of pleasure through his belly and balls, heaving his own johnson upright heartbeat by pounding heartbeat.

Desperately flattening his cheek to the cool metal, Steve gropes after his self-control, but the sailor huffs surprise, slams in harder and shouts happily as Steve reflexively clenches. "Oh baby," he puffs reedy and deep, "I _felt_ that!" as Steve indignantly tries to snatch a breath, and snaps his hips again, knocking all the air and too much goddamn noise right back out of Steve's mouth. "Like that, huh?" Thick fingers dig into Steve's waist as the sailor hauls him back, adjusting the angle, and the next thrust strikes sparks, so horribly good Steve's eyes cross.

He wants to smack the hands off his waist, squirm free before he embarrasses himself. He twists his fingers in the coarse blanket but all he can feel is the rough cradle of a bedroll and the way Barnes rolls his hips when he's getting close, sinking deep into Steve as he can get. Unwelcome pleasure keeps pulsing along Steve's nerves, searing down into his balls and up his spine. "Not your fuh -- _oh_ \--" he fails at cursing and the sailor laughs, booming and breathless, into a matching moan as his hips speed into a rubbing, nudging rhythm. A deep throb rises all through Steve, overwhelming as knock-down billows, setting his untouched dick dripping between his shaking thighs.

"Nnf, c'mon?" One hand peels off Steve's waist as the other slides down to clamp over his hip, mashing flesh against bone; Steve hears a horking noise and twitches all over, trying to hunch over himself, unable to think of anything but Barnes's low chuckle and rough-silk hands. Thick wet fingers wrap around Steve's dick and he flings his head back and forth in a thrashing headshake that the sailor seems to take for encouragement.

"Nuh," Steve struggles out, between airless gasps, unheard under the sailor's full-throated groans as he pulls on Steve's dick and pounds into him, each push setting off flashing lights behind his eyes while Barnes flickers through his head. Steve shouldn't let himself get this worked up while working, shouldn't indulge in fantasies, but all he can feel is surging desire, cranked higher and higher by each spin of memory, his head whirling around the sly tilt of Barnes's smile and the precise ripple of his calloused fingers and the furnace warmth of his naked body.

"C'mon, kid," in Barnes's remembered voice overlaps with the sailor's grunted encouragement as his tugging hand stutters, his hips jerking, but one more slam and Steve barely has time to shove his forehead against the blanket as all his bones rattle under his crackling skin, groaning high through gritted teeth as he founders under the unwelcome flood. "Hah!" the sailor cries out as Steve's body disobediently spasms around him, and busts his own nut so noisily Steve's head pounds in time with each hoarse shout above him.

Eventually the throb all through him starts to ebb away, much too slowly. The raspy blanket against his forehead feels nothing like Barnes's soft chapped mouth, pressed there in a smiling kiss.

"Oh, honey," the sailor moans, huffing hot gusts over Steve's damp back, "oh damn, goddamn."

He rubs big raspy palms up and down Steve's heaving ribs, and it takes several gasping breaths, as Steve's cooling skin prickles and crawls, until he can choke out, "Goddamn yourself, get offa me."

The sailor huffs surprise, but shifts his pull to a push and drags himself out of Steve's twinging flesh. He smacks Steve's ass, pretty gently considering, but the blow sets Steve shuddering, and without the sailor's thighs behind his he teeters over and slumps onto his side. 

Cloth rustles and a heavy foot thumps the floor. "C'mon, kid," the sailor drawls, voice dripping satisfaction, "You needed it as bad as I did, honey. Went off like a rocket."

"Not your fucking honey," Steve mumbles petulantly into the blanket, the fire dying all over him, leaving him chilled and empty. He doesn't even know if he'll see Barnes again, or Gabe or any of the other Howlies, they're headed to Naples but Lt. McGath wants to take Steve onward to Athens to set up a pro station there... and he shouldn't be thinking about any of this now. He should sit up and smile and clean the sailor up and send him on his way. 

Instead Steve pulls his knees to his chest and presses his face into the damp, redolent blanket, and when a big hand palms his head he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter. "Hey kid," the sailor murmurs, voice deeply, unbearably gentle, and Steve grits his teeth till little spikes of pain jut into his jaw. "Who was he?"

Steve twists his head away from the touch and the words and everything. "Just sign my fucking book and go," he snaps, his voice cracking like he's twelve instead of almost twenty-two, his eyes aching. The sailor harrumphs a little, stepping away; there's a scratch of pen on paper, footsteps and a draft across Steve's naked back, and the door opens and shuts and Steve's alone.

He bites his lip and twists the blanket between his fingers as his traitorous eyes prickle. He shoves down every image of Barnes until his mind is finally blank. He punches the bedstead, once twice thrice, until his knuckles sting enough to help. And then Steve pushes himself up on shaking arms, sits down firmly on his throbbing backside, runs fingers through his ruffled-up hair, and waits for the next knock on the cabin door.


	2. Outlive This Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky came prepared.

Bucky came prepared. Sitting on an empty ammo crate in the bright Neapolitan sunshine, he takes a swig of water from his canteen, chews a piece of pizza, and waits by the gangplank. The disembarking soldiers have slowed to a clumpy trickle, a squad or a few buddies here and there, but they're not done yet, so Bucky waits. Two days ago he extracted a promise from Lt. McGath and if this ship tries to move too soon he's quite sure he can run up that gangplank before they get it stowed. His freakish strength and stamina ought to be good for something, after all.

So he waits.

Soon enough, he finishes his snack, licking char and grease from his fingers as his stomach growls for more; he sent the guys up to a little cafe to eat and wait, and between DumDum and Gabe, he reminds his unsatisfied belly, they'll save him a good bit of grub. So he curls his hand over the edge of the crate, and waits.

Eventually, a small neat figure trudges down the gangplank, and Bucky's watchful heart stirs at the sight of its target. Steve walks carefully like he's trying not to limp, a private's hat perched on his freshly combed hair, shading his purple-lidded eyes. He looks like it's the third leg of a long march, shoulders squared and step steadied mostly by force of will, maybe a mile or so from the point where Bucky scoops him up and carries his protesting ass for rest of the hike.

Right around when Bucky thinks so, Steve spots him, and his whole face lights up, eyes wide and shining, mouth pursing into a little pink 'o' of surprise. In another life. Bucky could dream, he'd run up that gangplank and wrap Steve in his arms. Instead he presses his eager hands to his thighs, smiling as encouragingly as he can, and watches Steve's mouth firm into an answering smile as Steve salutes him.

Bucky salutes in return, and lets his smile unfurl to a grin as he watches Steve quick-march the rest of the way down. Moving this fast Steve can't hide his hobble, making Bucky glad all over again he told the guys this was Steve's liberty too. But Steve hurries like he doesn't even feel it, though Bucky knows damn well he does, and hop-skids to a stop just in front of Bucky's knees. "Sarge," he murmurs, saluting again, and God, Bucky wants to grab his shoulders and pull him in close, chest to chest, lips to lips.

He doesn't. "Rogers," he says calmly, belying his thumping heart, and holds out a hand. Steve takes it in a firm shake, and if they hang on a few heartbeats too long, the wharf's nearly empty and who the fuck cares anyway. "C'mon, let's get going." Bucky stands, scooping the crate up under one arm, and lets himself sling the other around Steve's neck. Steve leans into his side with the tiniest sigh, and Bucky doesn't let himself nuzzle into Steve's straight soft hair, contents himself with its shine in the sunlight and gives up a smile. 

"Shouldn't we wait for the guys?" Steve asks, of course. "Did they split you up from them too?"

Shaken deep down inside, Bucky catches his breath. It was only two days, two nights, so how did Bucky forget the blinding intensity of Steve's sincerity? "Nah, we got here hours ago," he answers as lightly as he can, keeping himself from kissing Steve in broad daylight, contenting himself with the one-armed hold as they walk up the quay. "I just sent them up the street to grab some grub." 

Another layer of tension sloughs off Steve's shoulders. "Oh good. I was a little worried." 

"That we all got split up?" The way he never should've let Steve get spilt off from them again, Bucky thinks for the thousandth time.

"That I'd have to desert to catch up with you guys." Bucky glances sideways and finds Steve's eyes sparkling, bluer than the sea behind them. "I spent all morning trying to figure out how to get out from under the sailors and off the ship, but Lt. McGath actually let me go." Creases edge Steve's eyes and his lip momentarily twists, and Bucky can just imagine how grudging that permission was. McGath was surly enough when Bucky extracted that promise from him in the first place.

If he could, Bucky'd swear that no one would take Steve from them again. From him, But he knows better. So he just squeezes Steve hard around the neck, and Steve flexes with it, bony and resilient, huffing a little laugh. "I'm here now," Steve softly tells them both, then arches one thick eyebrow. "How were the accommodations over on your ship? Have a pro there too?"

"Yeah, but the poor girl couldn't stop puking. Took her down to the infirmary." The gratitude in her wide eyes rattled Bucky hard; he last saw that look on prisoners rushing out of cages after he'd busted open the locks. Thinking of Steve the whole time, he carried her down himself, went back up and gave her minder an earful.

His Howlies slapped his back for it. Several sailors glared at him. He can't help wishing someone was there to look after Steve like that, but at least now he's back with his little full-lipped smile, seeing right through Bucky as he says, "That was good of you," sincere and warmer than the sunshine.

"Thanks," Bucky mutters, looking down from Steve's gleam. "How 'bout you? You do okay?" Coming up with a tease, he glances sideways. "Think of your old Sarge at all?"

Steve's mouth flattens like he's holding something back behind its firm line. "No," he says clearly, and it smarts like a punch to the chest. "I was there to do a job," he goes on while Bucky tries not to gasp. "I... it wouldn't help to think of anything fun."

Steve looks down as Bucky blinks. And blinks again, the hurt dissolving under those words, as he understands. Oh," he mutters, leading Steve around a corner and onto a shady street lined by tall wide-leaved trees. "So I'm fun, huh?"

Steve keeps watching his feet, but red wells up on his cheekbone, and Bucky aches to kiss him there and everywhere. He squeezes Steve again, fine-boned shoulders in the crook of his arm, slender hip bumping his, and wonders how long he can hold himself at bay, reminds himself that Steve's on leave too.

Steve glances up sideways with a narrow little smile."You'll do," he says, and Bucky laughs helplessly and ruffles his hair. "And it wasn't all... it wasn't bad. There were even a couple of funny bits." 

"This I gotta hear." No one's near, the block empty between broad-walled warehouses, but Bucky leans in close anyway, letting Steve lower his voice to a deep murmur.

"The ship was pretty busy," he starts, "and a lot of the sailors were pretty chummy, so I got some double-ups." Nodding, Bucky refrains from any plainly hypocritical jokes about the Navy. "There was these buddies, they sounded like an old married couple or a comedy routine." Steve's eyes crinkle as he shakes his head, smiling at the remembered joke. "When they started bickering about who got which end I thought I'd hurt myself trying not to laugh. So I told them if they shut up with the squabbling they could fuck me at the same time."

Bucky heats right up like the sun shot up to noon above them. He knows how that looks, Steve flushed red from thighs to hairline, shiny with sweat, lips parted the perfect span to slip two fingers or a pushy tongue between them. He knows how that feels, Steve impossibly hot and tight around two dicks inside him, relentlessly working himself up and down, every little breathless grunt reverberating through him. Bucky damn near trips over his own feet, thinking about that. "Do you _ever_ look before you jump?" he demands, his voice is already going gravelly. 

Steve smiles wider, sly and sweet and wicked. "I already knew I could pull it off," he points out, as if reasonably.

"We should never've let you try it," Bucky pretends to gripe, badly, and pulls his hand back just far enough to squeeze Steve's shoulder.

"I don't remember any complaints," Steve says loftily. "And I don't think I'd get any from those two. They started kissing over my shoulder, kept it up until the one in back came loud as a freight train."

Bucky frowns a bit. It seems obscurely unfair, ignoring Steve sleek and gorgeous between them, giving it his all like he always does. "No kisses for you?" he asks, and Steve just shrugs. "That doesn't seem gentlemanly."

Steve rolls his bright eyes. "Oh, sure, fucking a pro boy up the ass, what a time for fine manners." He reaches up, brushing his fingers over Bucky's hand on his shoulder. "Besides, I got to watch them." Just a quick touch, but Bucky's scarred knuckles tingle with the lingering impression. "It was kinda nice, getting a show while giving one, watching them throw themselves into the tonsil hockey just past my ear. Helped inspire me to do my best."

Bucky doesn't say that Steve always does his best. He doesn't say any of the other thousand sappy things pressing outwards inside his chest. The turn's coming up from this sleepy street to a buzzing avenue full of shops and people, but before they get there... Bucky leans in quickly, close enough to brush his bottom lip along Steve's ear as he whispers, "Well, I'd kiss you."

He leans back and Steve's rosy pink from his bangs on down, his eyebrows high and his mouth the most delicious plump oval. "Why don't'cha?" he asks, bold as brass, in the middle of the street. 

It takes Bucky three tries to unstick his tongue "Because you're on leave with the rest of us," Bucky says in his best Sergeant Barnes voice, but looking at Steve from under half-mast lids that should let him know that's the _only_ reason. Steve's thick eyebrows crinkle down and lift again, his grin sharpens as he nods, as he gets it. "I stashed the guys just up this way in this little cafe. Told 'em to leave some for when we get there."

"I could stand a bite," Steve agrees. As they turn onto the more populated street Bucky peels his arm from around Steve, a little for appearances and mostly to brush his fingers across Steve's as he drops his hand to his side.

For the swiftest moment Steve threads his fingers through Bucky's, into a squeeze like a single heartbeat, before they let go.


	3. Save Thou Thy Labour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve reminds himself, it wasn't so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is especially to Stoatsandwich's credit.

_Late Summer, 1944_

When the door's gone unmolested for a full five minutes, no one left in line to bang on it or shout from the hallway, Steve takes a deeper breath, blows it out, and observes to the blank white ceiling, "Well, that was exhausting." He blinks slowly, even his eyelids aching, his whole body crushed into the sodden blanket over the thin mattress. Serving with the Howlies has spoiled him, Steve reminds himself; this was no worse than a rush-hour shift back in London, not really. He did lose count around the eighteen-to-twenty mark and that was hours ago, and he's sore everywhere, all his joints from neck and shoulders to hips and knees, to his bruised mouth and throbbing asshole, but he used to have to do this six days of seven.

He ached all over afterwards then, too. Every time.

Steve shifts just a little, pushing his heel down to straighten his leg, and feels warm stickiness slide out of him, tastes bitterness in the coated back of his throat. He just feels flattened, and cooking oil's not nearly as good a slick as vaseline. As he was hustled away he'd disbelievingly asked Sergeant Pollock, "You guys don't have a single jar?" and been answered, "None without metal shavings in it," which was pretty much that. When Steve insisted he couldn't do one airman dry, let alone the whole squadron, Major Tracy came up with the cooking oil idea, but by now the cup's empty and Steve smells like yesterday's fish fry, his palms and thighs greasy and abraded. But then, everywhere hurts, he throbs dully in two dozen different spots, maybe one for each of Tracy's flyboys.

It wasn't so bad, Steve tries to tell himself, hands hanging limply off the sides of the little bed, mouth tacky-dry. He could use a drink. He could use two, water and then whiskey, maybe, or Continental gin, since they're across an ocean from New York and its supplies of sweet rum. Tracy smelled a little like bay rum as he motioned Steve between his thighs, the commander taking first turn, smiling in what he probably thinks is a reassuringly avuncular manner as he petted Steve's hair while getting sucked off.

Steve is getting to dislike majors. Maybe just the ones who insist on putting their dicks in his mouth.

But it wasn't so bad, even though he can still remember Bucky's stricken face as he argued against Major Tracy's demand to requisition Steve. They'd finally gotten into their borrowed room, lain down their packs and spread out their bedrolls, when Sergeant Pollock arrived looking to lead Steve away for a night servicing the squadron. Bucky said no, so Pollock went and fetched Tracy, with his gray-frosted temples and his calm shpiel about how his men needed relief, embroidered with the woeful tale of how difficult it was keeping them off the locals. Bucky kept on arguing, voice sliding dangerously low as he explained in turn that Steve was tired as anyone else after a full day's march, and that he was seconded specifically to Barnes's Howling Commandos and no one else. He made a good go of it too, raising Steve's hopes until Tracy flat-out pulled rank. 

And then everything went slow, the moment stretching out like an hour. Steve looked up at Bucky's wedged-down eyebrows and storm-dark eyes, and knew that next he'd order the Howlies to pack back up and head out into the wet night, rather than pay for their lodgings with Steve's body. Steve glanced back at Gabe's jutting frown and Jim's gritted teeth and Dernier's folded arms, and he knew they'd do it too, if Bucky said so. Despite Monty's limp, DumDum and Dernier's hacking coughs, how exhausted they all were, ready to sack out twice over after hot food and hot showers and the prospect of sleeping warm under cover. But they'd give up the warm night, and Bucky was on the verge of saying the word.

So Steve turned towards Tracy's obnoxiously gentle smile and said, "Yes, sir, of course, sir, where do you have in mind, sir?" As he stepped forward Bucky's mouth went round as his eyes, horrified and shocked and gut-twistingly young, and Steve tries not to remember the last time he saw Bucky's face do that. It's not a big deal. He shuts his own eyes, dropping his arm across them, and wonders if Tracy expects him to sleep here, sticky with jizz and smeared with oil atop a patchy-soaked blanket. Maybe if the squadron's really all done he can go clean up and stagger back to where the Howlies are bunked, if he can drag himself to his feet.

It's not like it was so bad. After so long learning his guys' particular quirks and preferences, the rush of airmen merged into one impersonal blur, turning Steve this way and that, fucking him variously. The last guy was just heavy, and he wanted Steve on his back, legs spread wide around his waist as Steve pressed his palms overhead against the wall for leverage. He wasn't rough or cruel, just... big. All over. Steve was glad he'd gone late. Only one was really an asshole, anyway, muttering "take it, fairy," under his breath, and when Steve told him to shut up, that he could fuck or not but Steve wasn't here to listen to his shit, the guy piped down with just a few grumps about smart mouthed pro boys. Really, Steve thinks as he tries to make his hazy brain tally up, it wasn't so bad. Even if he still can't get a count more exact than somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, so some had to have taken second helpings. He'll figure it out when he gets his book back tomorrow. They'd better all have signed it.

His scalp only aches a little, at least, only a few of them pulled his hair. Three tried to kiss him, but each time Steve ducked away, thinking of Gabe and Bucky and the rest of his guys, thinking of how he'd rather be asleep between any two of his Howlies than on his back or belly or knees for these flyboys. 

Not that what Steve wants matters. He knew that when he signed up. And it wasn't so bad.

Someone knocks on the door, and Steve bites back a groan. He is absolutely, completely, utterly fucked out for the night, his belly turning at the thought of one more cock in him anywhere, mouth or ass or even his hand. But it's his job, so he struggles up onto his elbows, calling, "A moment," in a thick raspy voice, and coughs before he can say more.

The door swings open, and Steve is narrowing his tired eyes to glare when he sees his own Sergeant Barnes -- _Bucky_ \-- standing there with a sack over one shoulder and his full rosy mouth as set as when he shoots. "Sarge," Steve breathes without meaning to let himself, and Bucky's whole face just melts and smooths, his eyes going soft as he kicks the door shut and marches over to the bed.

Steve's first surge of relief is swamped by self-directed disgust as he remembers his current state and curls up over himself, more jizz blurting out of him as he drags his knees up tight, "Rogers," Bucky asks, urgently as an order, "hey, you okay?"

"Me? Me, I'm fine. Just --" Steve looks down at his chest, dried drips and smears across his scuffed-pink skin. "I'm filthy, God, I shouldn't, you shouldn't --"

"Course I should," Bucky says warmly, and Steve looks up, blinking in disbelief. Bucky is smiling, a little lopsided but real, right at him. "C'mon. I found their stores lockers." He pulls a pair of towels from the sack on his shoulder. "Wipe up a bit and let's get you back to the showers."

"But, I'll probably ruin this." The blanket's probably a loss, after all.

"They can do their own damned laundry," Bucky rumbles. "I think -- anyway, never mind what I think. C'mon, clean up a bit. I've got your gear and your record book, and they can fucking well stand you another hot shower."

Taking a towel, Steve scrubs himself as best he can, blushing hard, forcing his hands forward down his chest and between his legs like this isn't several different kinds of embarrassing, closing his eyes against the feel of Bucky watching. He means to thank Bucky, but what comes out of his mouth next is a miserably soft little, "Why?"

"Why what?" Bucky echoes, second towel in hand.

"You came for me," Steve mutters, and looks down at himself, past his ribs and chafed-red belly, to his own utterly uninterestedly limp cock. "You -- you came to get me."

There's a moment, as Steve stares at his own befouled skin and he can't hear anything but Bucky breathing hard beside him. Then Bucky's hand cups his nape, fingers pushing through the hair there but not tugging it, and Bucky leans in, eyes intent and lips parted. Steve expect a kiss, longs for and dreads one; it'll hurt, his mouth is so sore, he's so damn tired of being touched, but out of everyone he'd least hate it from Bucky --

Bucky doesn't kiss him. Gently, firmly, he leans their foreheads together, closing his eyes. "You're mine," he murmurs, and the quiet words hit Steve so deep he moans in the back of his battered throat. "You're my auxiliary, you're one of my guys, you're mine and I'm here to get you."

Steve should say he's fine, he should tell himself and Bucky this used to be his everyday duty, he should get himself cleaned up enough to get dressed. He slumps into Bucky's hold, his free hand curling tight into Bucky's shirt, and he can feel himself shaking. He should move.

He doesn't. Not for a long moment, Bucky's forehead pressed to his, Buck's warm chest firm beneath his knuckles, Bucky's breath filling his lungs. He remembers Bucky running up the rise, his face when he found Juniper dead under Jim's and Steve's frantic hands. Steve shivers from every sore ache, under all the fingerprints smeared across him, and doesn't move from Bucky's hold.

Eventually it's Bucky who gets them moving again. "C'mon, I think that's enough," he mutters, throwing the second towel around Steve like a blanket, raspy little loops all over his skin. "Alley-oop," he adds as he scoops Steve up into his arms.

"Jesus," Steve blasphemes helplessly, and keeps himself from looking back at the wrecked bed. So there's nowhere to look but Bucky's face, his lopsided smile and those sea-deep eyes. "Jesus, Sarge, I can walk--"

"Lemme lend you a hand, no one's gonna see." Bucky's satchel bumps Steve's calf as he swings them around, looking towards the door, his neck finely corded, his chin set with that little cleft Steve keeps trying to capture in sketches. He's so beautiful, and Steve shouldn't impose this on him, need to be rescued, want to be saved. He opens his mouth to protest, and Bucky looks back at him, face gone quiet like before a mission. "Steve. Trust me?"

There's only one answer to that. "Bucky," Steve says. "Yes." Bucky's eyes crinkle at the corners and Steve lets himself slump into strong arms, head falling to Bucky's broad shoulder, but not so limply that he can't reach out his free hand and open the door.


	4. One Man More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "C'mon," Rogers insists, grin wide and bright. "I can do this. I want to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for PotofSoup. :)

_January 1944_

 

Barnes has got it bad.

Gabe lies on his side in the quivering, creaking bed, pretending to sleep by lamplight as Barnes and Rogers go at it _again_ , shushing each other like cuddling teenagers. He lies there, hard up against his belly despite his own satisfying turn earlier, listening to the slick rhythmic slapping, to Rogers's little breathy gasps and Barnes's deep rumbles. His own dick throbs with each tiny whimper and muffled moan, as Rogers's voice rises and cracks and Barnes murmurs quietly between juicy-sounding kisses. He's a little surprised by that last -- Rogers ducked away from Gabe's hopeful mouth, careful not to pass on his cold, wedging his pretty face under Gabe's chin so all that could be kissed of him was his soft tousled hair -- but Gabe can understand why Barnes finds it worth the risk.

So he lies there, listening in as they fuck, and hides his smile against his arm. He hasn't known Barnes all that long, just since their decimated units were captured together, but has found him a good leader and a good man, with a big heart tucked under his bark-rough surface. Rogers, meanwhile, works so hard, all ninety-odd pounds of him, to be as professional and friendly as any soldier with his fellows, to keep from playing favorites, but Gabe's seen how his long-lashed eyes follow Barnes, how he tilts into it when Barnes kisses him. He's got it just as bad, the two of them like kids in puppy love trading glances across the choirloft. It's adorable, Gabe thinks, as the bed shudders and Barnes groans.

A huff and a bounce and Rogers makes such a sweet noise, edging high. that Gabe gives up the attempt at barracks-privacy and rolls himself over to see. He finds Rogers on top, head tipped back and whole slender body in motion, propped on shaking arms over Barnes's broad chest as he rolls his hips, up and down and up and down, rocking between Barnes inside him and Barnes's grease-slick fist curled around his thrusting dick. Barnes's eyes gleam from under his half-closed lids as he watches Rogers tremble and work over him, and Gabe settles in to enjoy the show, remembering the clinging heat of Rogers's body and his earnest dedication to getting a man off, considering a few friendly pulls on his own cock. Barnes seems to have gotten Rogers to forget his job in his own pleasure, and it's a sight to see.

Gabe picked his moment well: it's not long, as Rogers tightens his white-knuckled grip on Barnes's flushed shoulders and groans from between his clenched teeth, until he flings his head back, bangs flying, and comes in sticky streamers all over Barnes's chest. Barnes chuckles, gently letting go to grope for a fold of sheet, so Gabe puts it into his hand. Barnes blinks sideways at him, like he forgot Gabe was even sharing the bed, and Gabe laughs at him for it. Precious Lord, they're so cute.

As he swipes at his chest Barnes shrugs a shoulder, and no, Gabe doesn't blame him. Rogers wilts out of his taut arch, head hanging as he pants, lashes damp and trembling, full lips slung apart. He looks so prettily debauched Gabe wants to reach out a hand to his heaving ribs, tucking it instead into his own shorts. His dick and his heart both ache with warm fullness, a little like he imagines being fucked would feel, and one day maybe he'll ask Rogers how it does.

Maybe not now, though, as Rogers folds down onto Barnes's chest and Barnes showers kisses on his forehead and nose, sharp cheekbones and tender cheeks. He aims for those plump lips and Rogers visibly summons the strength to flail a hand at him, thickly muttering, "Don' kiss me," as he ducks away from Barnes's roving mouth. "Sarge, don't, you wanna catch this cold?"

Barnes just presses his smile to Rogers's hair as he winks at Gabe, who grins back, pulling a long stroke. Rogers blinks open one big eye and smiles, wide and smirky as he boldly runs his gaze over Gabe, letting it show that he likes what he sees. Gabe puffs up his chest a bit under the regard, enjoying watching Rogers enjoy himself.

At least until he spots Gabe's hand in his shorts, and reverses his smile into a plump little frown as he reaches out to grab Gabe's wrist. "C'm'ere with that," he orders raspily, as Barnes snickers and pets the length of his narrow back.

Gabe's not about to make Rogers choke on his cock when the kid can't even breathe through his nose. "I'm fine," he demurs, "having fun, watching this swell show."

Rogers pushes out a plump lip, turning his head to pin Gabe with the full force of both bright eyes, sliding his narrow fingertips down Gabe's wrist, four heated presses over his cockhead. "Lettin' you jack off'd be _professionally negligent_ ," he insists, and Barnes laughs hard enough to shake both of them. 

Gabe laughs too, winded by delight, as Rogers slots those clever fingers between his, as Barnes's eyes shine with the closest to uncomplicated happiness he's yet displayed. "Sarge is up, anyway," Gabe points out unnecessarily, "I can wait my turn...?"

As Gabe talks Rogers's eyes go ominously wide, and he pushes up on his arm so Barnes can see his face as he offers, "You don't have to wait, I can take you both, Sarge, don't you think?" 

Barnes's eyebrows hike up his forehead, his voice gravelly on, "You sure?" 

Nodding eagerly, Rogers grins at him, fingers tightening as he tilts his gaze to Gabe. "On va voir," he tells them, with a little wiggle that makes Barnes hiss through his smile, with a sparking squeeze that makes Gabe gasp as he laughs again.

"Should never've started on French with you," Gabe protests as he surrenders, clambering up onto his knees. He peels his hand off himself to push his shorts down and Rogers strokes him slowly, not letting go in his moment of victory. Barnes catches Gabe's eye over Rogers's head, smiling indulgently as he spreads his thighs to make room, apparently easy with this.

Gabe swallows the sudden lump in his throat and keeps a grip on his cool as he shuffles forward, Rogers tugging somewhat helpfully; he turns to give Gabe an encouraging smile and Barnes squeezes his eyes shut, probably at the feel of that twist on his dick. Maybe he's done this before, maybe Rogers has, one day Gabe'll get each of them drunk enough to ask. But he never has, working hard to breathe easy as Rogers slides those fingers off him and faces forward, bracing both hands on Barnes's shoulders again. Looking down to where Barnes's snugged into Rogers's body, Gabe sets a hand on Rogers's hip and finds his skin fever-hot, tender over sinews and bone. "Where's the --"

Rogers cuts Gabe off with a snort, parting those lips for a smart comment, but Barnes catches him with a glare in turn, and rumbles, "Where'd the slick go?"

"Under the bed, don't need it," Rogers insists, turning big determined eyes from Barnes to Gabe and back again. "I'm still greased up from before, c'mon." He wiggles again, enticing all down the line of his back, and Barnes hisses, mouthing a silent 'fuck' as he clutches Rogers's thighs with both hands. "C'mon," Rogers insists, grin wide and bright. "I can do this. I want to."

"You," Gabe murmurs, "are crazy." Barnes nods and Rogers laughs, and keeps laughing as Gabe nudges him, so Gabe can feel it vibrate through him, all the way to his stretching rim. Rogers tips his head back onto Gabe's shoulder, sucking in deep breaths and blowing them out again, and Gabe can feel Barnes's thighs still as stone alongside his as he pushes in, trying his best to go slowly.

Merciful Savior, every atom in him longs to slam forward. Gabe's been in someone before, he's fucked Rogers before, but the heady rush of newness dizzies him exactly the same as when he first sank into Petunia trembling and soft around him, the first time Rogers glanced over his narrow shoulder, smiling just slightly, backing into Gabe's careful push. Rogers is somehow even hotter inside this time, slick and almost impossibly tight, but his body gives, bit by bit, as Gabe eases into him alongside the thick curve of Barnes's dick, both of them quivering with stillness. Gabe can feel Rogers's noisy breathing like he's sunk in deep as his diaphragm, and his own lungs lock up as he pushes in, in, slowly in... a rounded nudge under his nutsack, the tingling rasp of hair at cross-grain to his, and Gabe realizes those are Barnes's balls nestled against his, that he's bottomed out, all in.

For a moment all Gabe can hear are Rogers sucking down air and his own pulse rushing through his ears. Barnes inhales, the shift rocking alongside Gabe, through them both, and orders, "Rogers, report." 

"Nnf, _full_ ," Rogers breathes, pressing his head back under Gabe's chin. "Really full. But I can do it." He lifts his head, looking straight at Barnes, and Gabe can see the challenge there reflected in Barnes's gleaming eyes. "Somebody _move_."

Gabe wonders if Rogers would ever admit if he couldn't do it, but can't breathe to ask, his brain sizzling inside his skull. He watches Barnes return Rogers's gaze, asking and answering with a look, and nod decisively as he says, "Jones, you heard the man."

Figuring he'll be forgiven for skipping the 'yessir' this time, Gabe grunts and pulls back from the clinging press of Rogers's body, and Rogers shakes all over and flops back against him, damp silky head on his shoulder, long hands clutching his forearms. Gabe starts to push in and Barnes flexes his hips, pulling out, and that long stroke the whole way in makes his eyes threaten to roll back. He gasps, and Barnes's smile shines with teeth as he peels a hand off Rogers's hip to slap Gabe's thigh. Rogers puffs another breathless laugh and Gabe shows his own teeth, shoving in faster, harder, smacking up against Barnes.

Rogers's laugh tumbles into a cry, Barnes's grin parts around a gasp, and now it's _on_. Gabe squeezes Rogers at waist and hip, Barnes grips his long skinny thighs, and they thrust into him alongside each other, as he keens and squeezes Gabe's wrists and shoves down into their strokes.

Gabe tilts his sloshing head enough to get a look at Rogers's face, to check on him. One searingly gorgeous glance and he loses his breath all over again. Forehead glittering wet, cheeks glowing red, plump lips parted over clenched teeth, Rogers somehow manages to look both exalted and businesslike. He's clearly working to get them both off, sweetly absorbed as he digs his knees into the mattress and rides them hard. Barnes groans deeper and deeper, vibrating through Gabe like music in his blood, and as the three part harmony sweeps him up he dips his head to kiss Rogers's arched neck, sliding a hand down over his taut belly to palm his dripping dick.

Rogers twitches inside and out, wringing Gabe so tightly electric red flashes across his sight. "Mother' a' God," Rogers gasps, high yet still resonant, "gonna come, gonna come."

"So come," Barnes murmurs, between an order and a plea, and it takes Gabe maybe five strokes until Rogers's forehead crinkles and he cries out, an open throated cadence streaming out of him as he spurts over Gabe's fingers and pulses impossibly tight around them both. Gabe's dragged shuddering after him, falling forward to press his palms to the bed as he empties himself into Rogers, as wild pleasure swirls in to fill him over the brim.

A broad hand curls over his shoulder, Barnes propping him up. Chest still heaving, Gabe manages to crack an eye open and finds Barnes smiling, hair strewn across his forehead, panting through his nose. Rogers gasps between them, his whole body shuddering, and Barnes twitches, hips rocking minutely like he really wants to get back to it. A breath, two, three, a shared delighted grin, and Gabe eases back from clinging tightness and manages to spin his flop just enough to land beside Barnes, almost shoulder to shoulder.

That gives him a glorious view of Rogers, glowing red across every visible inch of skin, eyes shining and bangs flying as Barnes shifts both hands up around his waist and bounces him. Rogers digs his fingers into Barnes's shoulders and rides the thrusts, panting "Sarge, Sarge, c'mon," and it doesn't take long before Barnes shoves his chin up and obeys, his whole body one wracked arch of trembling muscle. Rogers shares the sight with Gabe in an enraptured glance, and Gabe shakes his head and reaches up to pat Rogers's thigh, his own heart swelling in his chest. 

Rogers's nod turns into a yawn as he starts to droop. Barnes slumps and opens his eyes right around when Gabe's considering trying to catch Rogers, and saves him the dilemma by cupping Rogers's shoulders in his hands and easing him sideways between them,. "Should clean up," Rogers snuffles, sounding more stuffed than ever, and slumps onto Gabe, heated and sticky, long knobby back slung across his side. "l a su que vous voudriez ceci," he slurs, eyes shut, mouth a loose smile.

Gabe doesn't bother correcting Rogers's French, just watches him drop off faster than falling. Barnes shifts onto his elbow, tugging the sheet up over them, and after a moment he reaches across to switch off the lamp. Rogers's already sunk into the sleep of the righteous and hardworking, draped across Gabe's chest, just enough heft for comfort without weighing down his breathing. Gabe closes his eyes and drifts, warmed and satisfied through every last particle, French grammar and Rogers's eager face and the soft embers of pleasure all jumbled together in his dozing mind. 

Barnes breathes steadily beside them, and Gabe thinks he's asleep too, is nearly there himself when Barnes murmurs, "Hey, Jones?"

"Sarge?" Gabe musters up, heaving himself sideways into some slight attention, curling around Rogers's bony back, nestling his chin into soft damp hair. This had better be worth dragging himself back from the brink of sleep. 

"If I buy the farm out here?" makes Gabe's eyes fly open. Barnes doesn't look sleepy. His jaw's set, but his eyes are liquid and bottomless and focused through the dimness on Rogers's sleeping face. "Keep an eye on him?"

It takes Gabe a confused, blinking moment to get it, and then he grins. "Come on, Barnes." Who Gabe watched bend metal bars to let them out of Hydra's cages, who's fallen off a branch forty feet up, stood up and dusted leaves from his hair without a wince nor a scratch. "You'll outlive us all." Barnes glances at Gabe, uncertain and possibly even something like young, and this is too adorable, but Gabe's come twice tonight and sleep calls ever more insistently. "You think we're letting you go anywhere? Rogers most of all?" Barnes smiles, a little, enough, and Gabe yawns. "Pull up a corner and help me keep him warm."

"All right," is all Barnes says, but he tucks himself under an edge of sheet, into their cosy bubble, and Gabe closes his eyes again, smiling as he sinks back towards sleep. 

But he makes sure, as he dozes off with Rogers nestled to his chest, to say aloud, "Course I will."

And he knows, just as he slips under, that he hears Barnes sigh, "Thank you."


End file.
